


One Door Closes

by Solaris00



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Implies PTSD, Nightmares, agent carolina is a red you can't change my mind, canon typical language, s15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 19:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15517158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solaris00/pseuds/Solaris00
Summary: Grif, alone on the moon after the Reds and the Blues went off to save Church with Dylan and Jax, is forced to fend for himself. He comes to terms with each of the Reds as he learns to adapt.





	One Door Closes

**Author's Note:**

> Ya girl is back at it again. Haven't written for red vs blue in a while... whoops. But going through my WIPs has strangely inspired me to finish them! Imagine that!   
> Anyways, hope you like it. 
> 
> (Shameless slef-promotion alert: And if any of you also happen to be fans of Newsies, check out my fic Take My Stars and Sail. <3)

DAY 18 SINCE THOSE CRAZY FUCKERS DECIDED TO GO OFF ON A WILD GOOSE CHASE AND KILL THEMSELVES

 

It had been the second fucking night in row that Grif couldn’t sleep. Which is ridiculous. 

Sleeping was  _ his thing,  _ after all. Laziness and sarcasm and food and all that shit. The sole purpose in his life is to seek better naps, darker horizons. He has dreams of sleeping on some faraway island, in a hammock, in a place Sarge or Simmons or all the rest could never find him (except maybe Lopez. Grif always got the feeling that Lopez was kinda cool). 

Instead, tonight he roamed the empty, quiet hallways of their stupid makeshift fort. Alone. 

He passed Sarge’s room, but still couldn’t bring himself to look inside. Grif had closed that door the day they all left, and it stayed tightly shut to this day. Simmons’s room was a whole other matter, of course-- Grif already raided it for leftover food, and graffitied all over the posters of Sarge and, horrifically, Transformers, hanging up on his wall (he also added a nice handlebar  mustache on every picture of Simmons in Red base. Gotta have a little cultural diversity, right?)

Grif automatically made his way to the kitchen, winding between the beat-up cutout of himself that Sarge propped up in the living room, and the blow-up AirChair Grif smuggled out from Chorus, and stopping right in front of the refrigerator. 

He opened the door, licking his lips, eager for something wholly unhealthy and equally delicious. He expected to see Oreo’s (which were definitely better cold), or Cheese Sticks, or leftover pizza, or hell, he’d even settle for some chocolate syrup. 

But it was empty. Completely empty. The lettuce was gone. They were even out of goddamn soy sauce! 

_ Fucking hell _ , Grif thought to himself. He had forgotten that the food had run out about a week ago, and he was always too lazy to go out and find more. His poor, neglected stomach rumbled. There were only so many times one could eat those blue Meth-meth shrooms, after all. 

So, instead, Grif turned back down the hallway and began walking. 

Walking. 

Here was Dexter Grif. Alone. On a little paradise island. Without Sarge or Simmons or any of the fucking Blues here to ruin his life. He could be doing literally  _ anything  _ he wanted. 

And he was walking? Fuck  _ that.  _

But he guessed it calmed him down a little bit. It cleared his mind, and sort of made the dark corners in the base seem a little less dark. And besides, it gave him time to talk with his friend. 

“So, I think I’ve figured out the secret to life,” Grif said as he walked out of the base and down toward the beach. 

Simmons, keeping up step by step with him, rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, fatass. The secret to life is Twinkies.” 

Grif considered this. 

“I guess those could come pretty close, with the sweet, sweet cream filling and spongy exterior…” he close his eyes briefly, imagining it. He could almost taste the calories. “Yeah… I’m gonna call those a close second.” He opened his eyes and shook his head. “But no. The secret to life is…” He trailed off, hesitant to say it out loud. 

“The suspense is killing me,” Simmons interjected sarcastically. 

“I’m pausing for dramatic effect.” 

Simmons sighed. “Please, just tell me. I’m dying to know.” 

“Alright, here goes. It’s… perspective.” 

“Perspective.” Simmons quieted for a moment, considering it for a second. “Explain.” 

“Think about it. For years, we’ve been in life-threatening situations, fighting enhanced super-soldiers, or robotically fucked up A.I.’s. We’ve thrown ourselves into the middle of bullshit wars, gotten dragged along on the Blue’s stupid drama throw-downs, and it was the most important thing in the world to us.” 

“So…?” 

“But look back on it. We’ve been to the very edge of colonized space and back, and I’ve  _ seen it all.  _ It’s all so fucking enormous… There’s so many planets and people and lives and stories and  _ drama.  _ Put into perspective, we… we really haven’t done jack-shit.” 

“That’s not true!” Simmons protested. “Stopping the war on Chorus, we’ve saved lives! Stopping the director--” 

“We didn’t  _ stop  _ the Director. Carolina handed him a pistol and told him to go fuck himself! And Chorus… well, you heard what Locus and Felix said. It’s just one meaningless planet in a universe of millions and millions of meaningless planets.” 

They were quiet. Grif realized that he had stopped walking, caught up in the heat of the moment. He had sunk slightly in the sand, and the waves crept up slowly around his bare feet, sparkling in the bright moonlight. Wind ruffled his hair. 

“You don’t mean that,” Simmons said softly. Grif sighed. 

“Don’t I?” He could barely bring himself to meet Simmons’ reproachful gaze. The look of disappointment, of pity. The look Grif saw on his face the day they left, and he stayed. The look that screams ‘ _ you’re better than this!’  _ But he really wasn’t. 

“You’re not even real,” Grif muttered, waving his hand, and Simmons disappeared. 

He was alone again. 

 

* * *

 

DAY 24 SINCE THOSE ASSHATS LEFT GRIF ALONE ON AN UNINHABITED MOON

 

Grif hadn’t been talking lately. What was the point? There wasn’t anyone to talk to anyways. 

Simmons hadn’t returned since that night, good riddance. Grif didn’t think he could bear to see that look on his face one more time, at least not in person. The look was still etched in his mind, seared into his memories. It ached constantly, a reminder. 

Grif shut Simmons’ door last night, and locked it from the inside. The graffiti wasn’t funny anymore. 

On the bright side, though, Grif managed to find more food. He’d finally reached the point where he was so desperate for anything that  _ didn’t  _ send him on one hell of an acid trip he raided Blue base for some rope. He collected some leaves and branches too, and sat himself down on a rock for an hour, teaching himself how to make traps. 

It wasn’t too hard, he learned eventually, and it was actually an ideal way to hunt. You literally set something down on the ground, and wait for the food to come to  _ you _ . It was almost too good to be true. 

But he soon found out the equalizer the first time he caught a rabbit in his trap. 

He watched the creature struggle in vain, it’s limbs flailing helplessly. He stared into its beady, desperate little eyes. He watched as the little creature never stopped trying to escape from its predator in its lost and hopeless battle, and Grif, sickly, felt a little bit of what Locus must have felt when he stalked  _ his  _ prey. 

_ Perspective,  _ Grif thought glumly, then let the rabbit go. 

He decided to try his luck at fishing. 

 

He still managed to find other ways to avoid work: he dug a roomba out of the Blue’s basement so it could vacuum up the crumbs that Grif spilled (he never really cared about that before, but it attracted ants, which then stole bits of his other food--and he needed that, desperately), and found some fire-starters to cook the fish with. He burned the books from Wash’s bookshelf instead of gathering sticks (he figured that  _ if  _ the guy ever came back, he would have been through enough shit to not worry about a few lost books too much). 

But the obstacle he often ran into was heat. 

Sure, the fire-starters started the fire (duh), and, sure, the books kept it going. But it never burned long enough or hot enough for the fish to cook decently. 

He needed some sort of fuel, some kind of accelerant, something to make the flames bigger. He racked his mind. They had run out of gasoline ages ago, since Sarge used it all in his stupid war against gravity, and Grif drank all the cooking grease once they ran out of soda. No, he needed something different. Something like… something like… something like… 

Perfume. 

 

After much debating, Grif decided to raid Donut’s room that night. The main detractor was, of course, whether or not he could handle seeing whatever pink and lacey monstrosity was in Donut’s room. It was very likely filled with various  _ cleaning  _ products, and  _ nice-smelling  _ chemicals and  _ pretty  _ things. 

The very thought disgusted him. 

But his need for properly cooked fish out-weighed his apprehension, and, besides, who knows? Maybe Donut’s hiding some spices or shit in his room. 

So that was how he found himself standing outside the room of the mildly-frightening, pink, frivolous member of Red team, his hand resting lightly on the doorknob. 

He hesitated for a second.  _ Do I really want to do this?  _ he thought. But his stomach rumbled. 

He opened the door. 

 

Immediately, bright, flashing lights blinded his eyes, and the scent of grapefruit and vanilla cream overwhelmed him. Grif rocked on his feet as a wave of sensory overload hit him, making him double over with nausea. Lace poured from the ceiling, and the clouds of smells clogged his airway, choking him. Grif gasped and coughed and sputtered, covering his eyes, his mouth, his nose, and he began to feel all his organs beginning to shut down, one by one, as all things  _ pink  _ weaseled its way into every pore, every orifice, taking over Grif’s body and mind-- 

Okay, it wasn’t really that bad. 

Actually, the room was fairly mildly decorated compared to what Grif expected. The walls were a soft shade of coral, accented with neat, white trim. The room was tidy, too-- Simmons would have been impressed-- and a few smartly placed candles sat nicely by the coral-pink bed. 

Sure, the room smelled more than slightly of grapefruit and vanilla, but it wasn’t overwhelming. It was actually… kind of relaxing. 

Of course, Grif will never admit that. To  _ anyone.  _

He cautiously walked into the room and made his way straight to the vanity. Perfumes and little bottles of lotion were arranged neatly by both size and color (again, Simmons would be proud), and Grif peered at them. He wondered which one, if any, would work the best. His hand hovered a smaller bottle, then over a large one, then one with an amber liquid, then one with a lilac liquid. There were too many to choose from… 

In his indecision, his eyes strayed over to the other side of the desk, where a picture frame sat. 

The picture frame was probably the most normal thing in the room, not outfitted with bows or lace or pink decorations, and Grif was surprised he didn’t notice it earlier. It was simple and brown, and though it had a ragged design, he got the feeling it had more heart behind it than anything else. 

Grif picked it up and looked closer. Inside the wooden box was a picture of them-- of the Reds and Blues and Wash and Carolina and the Trainees-- all on Chorus. It was clearly a candid photo; in the foreground was Simmons, both clearly startled by the picture being taken and the close proximity of Jensen in all her braces and freckles and pimply teenager glory. Sarge was gruff, his arms folded over his chest and glaring at the camera (but there was a twinkle in his eye). Tucker was arguing with Palomo in the background, while Wash stood a little farther away, eyeing the two of them apprehensively. Grif saw himself sitting on the floor next to Bitters sharing,  _ sharing,  _ a candy bar. Caboose pranced about happily in the background, while Carolina was mid-eyeroll. Kimball and Doyle stood neatly in the background (a little farther apart than necessary), and in front of it all, grinning widely and throwing up a peace sign, was Donut. 

Grif could barely remember Donut’s face, but he was pretty sure that was the happiest he had ever seen the guy (and that's saying something). 

He set the picture down gently on the vanity again after dusted off the glass. Sunlight bounced off the gleaming frame, scattering particles of light onto the wall behind him, the vanity, and, oddly, a small bottle of orange Chance perfume as if were a spotlight. Or possibly a big arrow saying “this one here!”  

Grif grabbed it and got the hell out of the room. 

 

He hurried downstairs and out onto the lawn where his firepit was set up. His fish were still set out on a clean rock, though he did have to chase off a fly or two. Grif tossed in a few of Wash’s books and pulled out his fire starter. Within seconds, the fire had started and caught, but it still wasn’t as high as Grif needed it to be. He pulled out the tiny bottle. 

He unscrewed the top and held it over the fire, hesitating. Would this work? Fire was never something Grif was particularly experienced with. He didn’t want to accidentally burn off his eyebrows or something else important. 

He sighed and began to tip the bottle. At the very least, maybe the fish would smell good. 

Immediately, the flames caught the liquid and lept into the air. Grif stepped back quickly, startled by the loud  _ woosh  _ the flames gave off as it grew. But the fire continued to stay hot, high and controlled. Grif studied the bottle in his hands. The perfume had worked perfectly. 

“Good choice,” Donut said, sitting on the log next to him. Grif glanced at him and began to skewer the fish onto sticks. 

“You helped,” he muttered, placing on over the flames. His voice was a little raspy from being unused. Donut beamed. 

“You got my message!” Grif sighed. 

“Could you have made it any less dramatic?” 

Donut shrugged good-naturedly. “A little flair for the dramatic is good for the soul.” 

“Says the hallucination.” Grif didn’t look at Donut when he said that, but he knew, just  _ knew,  _ the guy was pouting. 

“I’m as real as you want me to be.” 

Grif didn’t respond to that, only sat by the fire, turning the fish over and over again. His method was a little slow, but it brought out the juices in the meat. Grif learned that by trial and error, after many dry and undercooked fishes. Though he’d have to change his technique a little with the new heat. 

“So,” Donut started again. “You’re learning to cook.” 

“If this is cooking,” Grif snorted, gesturing to his setup. 

“Well, what else would it be?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Conversation with the pink guy never came easily to Grif. They were just too different, and unless they were both teasing Simmons, or Grif was yelling at Donut to quit hanging up lace in his room, they never really talked. Not like he and Simmons did. 

“Grif? You know you can  always spill your load on me, right?” Grif rolled his eyes. Donut sat straight up, eagerly and sincerely. “I’m serious! I’ll listen to whatever you say. What’s going on?” 

Grif didn’t respond for several minutes, focusing instead on the fish. But Donut sat perfectly straight the whole time, his young and honest eyes boring a hole on the back of Grif’s skull. 

He sighed. 

“Look, I’m just… I…” He hesitated, unsure of what to say.

“I miss you guys,” he blurted out, immediately turning away. Donut didn’t reply, only sat there. Watching. 

“It’s been… it’s been so hard by myself. I mean, at first it was awesome. I got to sleep all day and watch TV and eat all the food. There wasn’t any Sarge or Simmons or… or  _ you _ . No Blues, no Church. Nobody to make my life hell. I finally got a break from it all, all that bullshit.” 

Grif took a deep breath and shook his head. 

“But now I can’t sleep and this is the most I’ve talked in a long time. I have to fucking  _ hunt  _ for my food. I’ve had fish for breakfast, lunch, dinner for nearly a week now, and I’m sick and tired of it! And…” He paused. “Well, it’s boring here. Like a repeat of Blood Gulch, except now I’m by myself.” 

He caught his breath, shocked by the sudden avalanche of words that had come tumbling out of his mouth. 

Donut blinked.  “Oh.” 

“I miss you guys,” Grif repeated, and that sentence was so heavy he had to sit down on the log just to keep it from crushing him. He buried his head in his hands, and Donut scooted over to pat his shoulder comfortingly. 

They sat on that log for what must have been minutes, or hours, or days, or years. The time that passed was non-existent, the breeze that fluttered past the two of them was endless and the night was eternal. It had been forever since they had left; it had been forever since he left them. How long had it been since Grif had someone to talk to? How long had it been since he last saw Simmons, his friend? His family? 

It must have been forever. 

“You know…” Donut started, breaking the silence. “We’re still here.” 

Grif lifted his head slightly, and Donut reached over. He tapped a spot on Grif’s chest over where his heart was. “We’re still right here. We’ll never really be gone.” 

“But…” Grif sniffed. “What if you di-- don’t come back?” 

Donut laughed quietly. “Even then, we’ll still be with you. As long as you remember us. We’ll sit by the fire with you, we’ll talk with you, we’ll live with you. Just as long as you remember.” 

Grif held on to Donut’s words, pulling them tightly to his chest. He pictured each of his friend’s faces, wrapping them in a little bundle and locking them in his heart. Each detail, each little mark, each little stray piece of hair, Grif etched into his mind. He’ll remember them. He goddamn better. 

He sighed. 

“I’ll tell you what,” Donut said. “You know that picture on my vanity? The one you found today? Why don’t you keep it. It’ll help.” 

Grif nodded seriously. “Thank you, Donut.” 

Donut laughed softly. 

“Now who’s being dramatic?” 

And then he was gone. 

 

Grif went in later that night. He placed the empty bottle of perfume on the vanity, and picked up the picture frame. He took one last look into the horrifying, pink room, and smiled before he closed the door, locking it forever. 

 

* * *

  
  


DAY 32 SINCE HIS FRIENDS BETRAYED HIM 

 

“Grif!” 

The scream was loud, long, painful. It grated on Grif’s ears, and stung his throat. Dust covered his eyes, sucking out any moisture. Grif wanted to call back, but his voice was stuck, it wasn’t working. His limbs ached with incredible pain, like he was being ripped apart. A gun was held tightly in his hands, but he couldn’t feel a thing. 

“Grif…” The call was more of a whimper now, at his feet. The smell of gunpowder in the air, the taste of metal in his mouth. Someone had been shot. 

Grif looked down, past the gun shaking in his hands, and at the body lying beneath him. 

Maroon armor. 

Simmons was curled up in pain on the ground, clutching at a gaping hole in his abdomen. He gasped and sputtered, while blood seeped through the cracks in his armor. 

He blinked. 

Pink armor. 

Now it was Donut at his feet, it was Donut who was curled up in a ball, it was Donut who was dying,  _ again,  _ and the smell of blood was so strong, so strong. 

He blinked. 

Red armor. 

Sarge. 

And he wasn’t moving. 

 

Grif shot up in his bed, sweat pouring down his back. He panted, shoulders and chest heaving, hands shaking. The dark was confining, but all Grif could do was sit there and listen to the voices calling his name over and over again. 

He ran a hand through his hair once he could finally move and sighed. 

He was cold. 

He threw back his covers and left his room. The darkness was too small, so he made his way to the living room. There, he flicked on a lightswitch and dropped down on the couch. 

Eager to distract his mind anyway he possibly could, Grif turned on the TV. 

He flipped through channel after channel, from the news station (who watches  _ that _ anymore?) to the sports station, to food network, to the comedy channel, and back to the beginning. He cycled again and again through the channels, but nothing was a good enough distraction for him. 

Grif groaned. “Damn it…” he muttered aloud, tossing the useless remote to the floor and flopping back on the couch. 

He covered his face with his hands and tried to remember just exactly how his life turned to shit. 

It was smooth going for a while, as smooth as it could be. Just Grif and Kaikaina, fending for themselves on some rundown moon, living day by day, flying by the seat of their pants. Of course, there was always money troubles and Grif could distinctly remember sleeping in an abandoned warehouse for a while, so it wasn’t completely amazing. But back then, Grif didn’t need to worry about  _ killing  _ anyone, or aliens, or robots or a corporate conspiracy that went so far as to try to massacre an entire planet. 

“It was so much simpler back then,” Grif muttered aloud, not fully aware of even saying it until he heard the response. 

“Hmph. Tell me about it.” 

Grif became aware of a presence next to him, and between the gruff voice and the stench of diesel, he didn’t have to guess who it was. 

Grif rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about? Weren’t you just always in the military? You fought in the Great War, didn’t you? How is that easier?” 

Sarge sighed. “Son, when you get to be my age--” 

“Jesus christ, here we go,” Grif muttered. 

“--you begin to believe you’ve learned everything there is to know. Back in the day, it was black and white. We were good. The Covenant was bad. We had to win, or die trying. Simple.” 

Grif snorted. It didn’t sound so simple. 

“But now…” Sarge said with a shake of his head. “Red vs. Blue, Blue vs. Red… it’s all the same. I was given a gun and told to fight. I put my faith in the Chain of Command! But it turns out it was all just a lie... It was all some big elaborate scheme cooked up by a couple of greedy scientists. I didn’t know what to think anymore… Without something to fight, there can’t be a Sarge.” 

Grif was silent. 

“Wow, Sarge. I guess I underestimated you. I never knew you could be so… heartfelt.” 

Sarge, not about to insulted like that, cocked his shotgun. “And that’s why I declared war on Gravity! Our true enemy was right beneath our feet this whole time, and we never knew it! Oppressed, by ourselves! Where will the torment end?” 

Grif sighed. There was the Sarge he knew. 

“Whatever, Sarge. I’m gonna go back to bed.” 

“Hah! I always knew you were a coward Grif!”   
“Hey!” 

“I always knew you were a lazy, good-for-nothing--” 

“Come on, man, you aren’t even real.” 

“But this is too far! What in Sam Hell do you think you’re going to accomplish by just running away?!” 

Grif snapped, whirling around and storming right up to him. “ _ I am  _ not _ running away! _ ” Sarge glared down at him through his thick white beard. “ _ You _ were the ones who ran away! AGAIN. You were the ones who went off on a stupid wild goose chase, the ones who aren’t gonna come back because for some goddamn reason you are all so bent on throwing away your goddamn lives for some asshole!” He was screaming, spittle flying everywhere, but he didn’t care, he  _ didn’t care,  _ he was so angry. “And you aren’t gonna come back ever, and it’s just gonna be me all by myself, stupid Grif alone on a stupid moon, stupid  _ lazy  _ Grif who can barely even feed himself--” 

“Son.” The word, uncharacteristically firm and final, stopped Grif in his tracks. “Now you listen here. You aren’t gonna get anything done by pitying yourself like this!” Sarge’s voice was gradually rising, and with it, his presence was growing larger and larger until he was practically towering over Grif. “Stop this whining and get on with it! Boy, you ain’t gonna make it a minute like this. In my day--” 

“Sarge?” 

“ _ In my day,  _ we didn’t have the luxury of complaining! So you’ve only eaten fish, so what?! At least you  _ have  _ fish! In fact, I’ll be damned, you have a whole island full of food! So stop moping around for Eisenhower’s sake, and  _ get off your ass.  _ So you don’t like it? Change it! Because whether we come back or not, you can’t depend on us to save your sorry behind anymore. And I’m sure as hell not gonna come back to find my Private  _ dead.”  _

It wasn’t until the silence hit for at least a good few minutes that Grif’s head stopped reeling. 

“I’m technically a Captain now,” he said meekly. Sarge exhaled heavily and began to shrink down to a normal size. 

“Does it really matter?” Sarge asked. He sat down on the couch. “There aren’t any ranks on this island. That’s why I couldn’t stay.” 

“Because you need action?” 

“Because I need  _ purpose.”  _

It was funny. Only a few seconds ago, Sarge had been so extraordinarily large, literally and metaphorically, but now on the couch he looked so very small and tired. Grif sat down next to him. 

“Purpose, huh.” He chewed on it for a second. “I don’t think I know what my purpose is anymore.” 

Sarge turned to look at him. “No one does. That’s why you gotta make your own.” 

So maybe that was why the Reds and the Blues left. Because on the moon, without someone to fight, someone to save, they felt as small as Sarge looked now. Because they were purposeless, so they needed to find something even if it was as ridiculous as saving Church yet again. 

“Ehh, tell you what.” Sarge scratched the back of his neck, as if he were starting to realize how different he was acting. “I left my old hunter’s manual back in my room. It’ll teach you how to set up traps, or find nuts and berries you can eat. And maybe you could make up some maps, or keep track of animals or something. Just, you know. Something to do.” 

Grif met his gaze appraisingly, and though he appreciated the kindness his old C.O. was showing him, he couldn’t resist a jab. 

“You know that’s what the internet is for, right?” 

Sarge hmphed. “Internet. The cheater’s tool! Maybe one of these days I’ll declare war on the internet too!” 

“Good luck with that.” 

  
  


Sarge’s room was about as military-like as he expected. A plain cot, an empty gun rack, a barrel which, Grif assumed, was used to hold ammunition. A packet of cigarettes sat on the desk, next to a small pistol and another object. Grif pocketed the cigarettes and picked up the book. 

The hunter’s manual was old and leather-bound, filled with detailed pictures and descriptions, notes in painstaking cursive and more. It was worn, and some pages were falling out. Holding it, Grif could just barely picture a younger Sarge, trekking through the jungle with his shotgun, carefully tracking a deer. He flipped through the pages, pages covered in these illustrations all the way until he reached about two-thirds of the way through. 

The rest was blank. 

Grif’s stomach rumbled. 

He snapped the book shut. Tucked away the pistol. Pulled out a cigarette. 

And shut the door behind him. 

 

* * *

  
  


DAY 56 SINCE THEY LEFT

  
  


The nightmares were getting worse every night. 

And they were different every night, that was the thing. If they were the same over and over again, maybe Grif would have been able to brace himself for the images to come. Somehow, he could prepare himself, block out the screaming. 

But it wasn’t always screaming. 

Sometimes it was cursing as his teammates surrounded him in a circle of hatred, stabbing him with insults like they were knives, blaming him for their own deaths, blaming stupid, idiot, lazy Grif for screwing up again. 

Sometimes it was cries as his friends and family were being slaughtered right in front of his eyes and there was nothing he could do. Sometimes he was frozen. Lately, he’d been asleep. Again. 

Tonight, it was silence. 

Never before had he ever heard a silence so empty, so devoid of life and love and meaning, so dark, so…  _ completely… quiet.  _

He stood alone on the hill overlooking their bases-- _ on the moon--the Gulch--Chorus--Valhalla-- _ as the sun set in front of him. 

Waves washed silently on the shore-- _ sand blew across the canyon--the beacon pulsed--the engine whirred-- _ and he reached for the bases, the bases where his friends should have been, smiling or laughing or bickering and so, so  _ alive.  _

But no one was there. 

His own heartbeat throbbed in his ears, the bases flickered-- _ GulchChorusValhallaMoon-- _ and he opened his mouth to shout, to scream, to say anything at all, but he couldn’t even make a sound and all the while…

Silence. 

 

Grif woke up for the nth time clutching at his sheets, drenched in cold sweat. 

Light streamed through the cracks of the hammock in which he slept outside (the base was too empty for him to sleep at all) and he shielded his eyes as he slowly unfolded the fabric that surrounded him. 

Sunrise never seemed fresher than this cool morning on the moon, as the breeze glided through the rustling trees. The air never smelled cleaner; the salty smell of the ocean, crisper. 

He stepped out of the hammock, carefully watching his footing. His armor was strewn on the ground before him, bright against the green grass which had regrown since the RedBlues last set the bases on fire. 

An alien creature, a mix between a bird and a dog, lay curled next to the pieces, soaking up the newly-risen sun. Grif had found him one day while hunting, and in the midst of a bout of loneliness, decided to keep him as a pet. He still couldn’t think up a name for him, though he toyed with naming it Simmons just to see the look on his face if he got back, so he just called it ‘it’ or ‘you’ or ‘pet’ or really any word that would indicate he was talking to the half-dog. 

His rifle leaned up against the tree next to Pet. Grif, needed to fill his days somehow, had created a routine of cleaning it every morning it. 

_ Cleaning  _ it. Grif. In a routine. 

Yeah, the Redblues were sure to get a kick out of that if they came back. 

He wasn’t really sure when he stopped saying ‘when’ and started saying ‘if’, but now his life had more important things to do. 

“Come on Grif, come on, come on, get up,” he muttered as he fell out of the hammock. He had changed much on his time alone here. His hair now unfurled down to his shoulders. He’s got the stubble of facial that desperately wants to grow in, but doesn’t have the genetics to back it up. He’s considerably leaner and tanner, hunting for food just to eat every day would do that to a person. His body looked like almost a new person. 

His mind hasn’t escaped unharmed either. 

“Busy today. Busy busy busy. Busy as a bee. Bzzzz. Buzzy bee-body. Busy buzzy beezy bodies.” His armor took exactly sixty-point-zero-two seconds. He knows, he counted every one. His record was forty-five-point-five seconds. “Bees buzz. Flies buzz. No, flies fly. Busy bee bodies busy and fifty flies fly far...far… far away.” 

To be fair, there really wasn’t much else to do but talk now. 

“Come on, come on, come on, Pet.” He gently pushed the half-dog up. “Lots to do today. Lots and lots and lots of stuff do to.” 

 

They trudged through the wilderness, today like every other day: him gripping his rifle, Pet plodding alongside him. They went through one by one and methodically checked the traps. 

Still empty, a relief. Grif had long since forced himself to start eating the small creatures caught in the traps, but he still hated seeing the creature struggle like it did. It still sickened him. But beggars can’t be choosers. 

“Nah, who can choose?” Grif laughed as he brushed the leaves back over the rope on the ground. “Cheaters. Cheaters can choose. I’m not a cheater. I’m Grif. I’m not a coward. Well, not all the time. Right Sarge? I’m not a coward  _ all  _ the time. I’m just doin’ my purpose, y’know? Just my purpose.” 

“What is your purpose, Grif?” Carolina asked as she stepped quietly next to him. 

“Oh hey, Carolina,” he greeted cheerily. He liked Carolina. Cool Carolina. Not-a-coward Carolina. She made him feel strong. “Today it’s to get this dang deer to stop eating my garden.” 

“And tomorrow?” Silly Carolina. She’d always do this. Always try to make him think about tomorrow, the tomorrow that might be sad, the tomorrow that didn’t matter to him right now. 

“Nah, just today,” he said to her. 

“Grif,” she pressed. Together they crouched down behind a bush. “You need to start thinking about a tomorrow.” 

“Why?” he asked. “Why do I have to? Why does tomorrow even matter?” 

Carolina frowned. “How could it not? Don’t you want to get off of this moon? DOn’t you want to see your friends again?” 

“My friends?” 

“The Reds and the Blues.” 

“Oh. Right.” In the distance, a creature raised its head. Grif shifted slowly to get a better view. “Nah. They’ll come back. I just have to wait.” 

“Grif…” He heard her sigh behind him. “What if waiting doesn’t work? What if they’re in trouble and they need you save them?” 

He mulled that over, then waved it off. “They’re the Redblues. They’ll be fine. They’ll come back. They’ll come back for me.” 

“What happens when they don’t--” 

_ “If!”  _ With sudden force, Grif whirled around. Carolina leaned back in surprise. “It’s ‘if’ now, don’t you know?! If they don’t come back! If they do! ‘If’!” 

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean--” 

Grif slammed his rifle down angrily, and the deer in the distance, spooked, sprinted away. “Because I  _ see  _ them! In my dreams! They’re sad and hurting and  _ if  _ they don’t come back, then I’ll know the dreams are true and I did nothing! I stayed behind! Like a  _ coward!”  _

“Grif,” Carolina said, placing her hand on his. “It wouldn’t be your fault. You did what you thought was right--that  _ doesn’t  _ make you a coward.” 

He sniffed. “Yes it does.” 

“No, it doesn’t. You know why? Because every night you face the darkest dreams and your deepest fears. Anyone else would have gone insane by now, but you  _ face  _ the worst possible outcomes every night. That doesn’t make you a coward. It makes you the opposite.”

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

“Carolina… I miss them. But I’m scared to see them again.” 

“The Reds and the Blues are your friends,” she told him firmly. Carolina knew what he meant. “Whether they come back or not, they’ll will always love you.  _ Love  _ you. Do you get that?” 

No they won’t, Grif thought, but he couldn’t say that to Carolina. Simmons won’t. He won’t forgive me. He couldn’t bear to think of a tomorrow in which Simmons didn’t forgive him. He couldn’t bear to think of a tomorrow in which Simmons didn’t come back. 

“I just…” he sniveled. “I just wish I could say sorry to him.” 

“Take a deep breath,” Carolina soothed. “And I’ll tell you what. I don’t have something from my room to give you, but I think I saw some volleyballs in the garage.” 

Grif looked up at her, eyes wide. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Maybe you can use them to practice saying sorry. You know, for if they come back. You can make things up with Simmons.” 

He nodded. “I do miss him a lot too.” 

“Alright then, it’s settled.” She stood up and dusted herself off. “I’ll show you where they are.” 

  
  


In the end, he still got to go in Carolina’s room. 

It was pretty and neat. Nothing personal. Just a couple of dog tags resting on a letter from Kimball on the nightstand. The clothes and other objects (typically running gear, that was what she did now) she didn’t take with her were folded neatly in the closet. 

But the dresser was different story. 

Her dresser was littered with half-full paint tubes and brushes and crayons and markers and pastels and all different art supplies. Paint stains covered the smooth wood finish, and the drawers were crammed shut with papers of all colors and sizes. 

Grif took some glittery gold paper and red paints of varying colors and retreated out of the room. 

“Thanks for letting me use these,” he said to her, his eager hands clutched with the supplies. “You’re cool, Carolina. I wished I talked to you more before you left. You aren’t that scary after all.” 

She laughed, a nice sound, a pretty sound. “Any time. And who knows? Maybe you’ll get another chance soon.” 

He smiled and reached for the doorknob, but she stopped him quickly. 

“Are you sure? I’m the last one. I won’t be there to talk to you after nightmares anymore.” 

“I know,” Grif said. “But I’m not a coward. I think it’s time I take those on myself.” 

She frowned then, when she was supposed to smile, supposed to be supportive for him. “You know… you don’t  _ have  _ to take them on all alone.” 

“I’m already alone,” he replied, surprising himself a little. “But I’m done talking to ghosts now.” He gestured to the paints. “I’m ready to write the script now.” 

Carolina nodded with cool respect in her eyes. Sometimes he didn’t remember that Carolina, cool, nice Carolina used to be a hardass Freelancer. Now, however, he wondered how he could have ever forgotten. 

She stepped back and saluted formally. “Good luck, Captain Grif. Make yourself a better tomorrow. And… when I get back, stop by once or twice, okay?” 

He nodded. “Okay.” He saluted back. 

And shut the door. 

 

* * *

 

 

DAY ZERO 

 

“Listen Simmons. Shhhh, I got… some things to say. To  _ you.  _ Some things I’ve gotta get off my chest buddy. Buddy? Nah, not buddy.  _ Stupid _ . Friend? Friend. Fr--no, definitely friend. Anyway, I’ve had a bit of time to think about some things. Lots of time actually. Oodles of time. Oodles of buckets of times of time. Tempo de mucho! Mucho de tempo! Now, listen Simmons. Simmmmmons. Sim--Sim--Cinnamon--ah! Focus Grif!

“Now things ended really bad out there, buddy-- _ no, friend!-- _ and I’ve been thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking...

"I need to tell you that I am super duper, I am so  _ incredibly--”  _


End file.
